Celtic Fire. Alex Archer

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      She saw a youngish girl behind the desk in the main room, probably a volunteer from the nearest university looking to add some summer credits. Behind her there was a display of books with faded jackets, and souvenir racks filled with postcards and faux-Roman trinkets. She smiled and the girl said, “Hello,” but that was all.

      Another woman polished the glass of the new display case, Annja realized as she circulated around the room.

      She came up beside the woman and said, “What happened?” looking down at the obvious emptiness where something had been on display up until yesterday.

      “Oh, hello,” the woman said, almost dropping her duster in surprise. She seemed to recognize Annja. “Sorry we couldn’t let you in yesterday. We had a little trouble, I’m afraid.”

      “Nothing serious, I hope.”

      “Anything that keeps us closed for a day is serious for us. We might not charge an entrance fee, but the money we take in for books and stuff makes all the difference in the world when it comes to what we are able to do. School parties, all of that, it keeps us afloat. That someone stole from us hurts because we’re all part of the same small community, but it’s these other losses that really hurt.”

      Annja looked into the case and saw that there was a stash of small coins nestling in a terra-cotta pot. “What did they take?”

      “Well, between you and me, that’s the strange thing. They left all these coins—not that they’re worth much, really—and took a grindstone.”

      “A grindstone?”

      The woman shrugged as if to say, Who knows? “I know. What on earth would a thief want with an old Roman grindstone? It’s essentially worthless outside the educational value, even to a collector. Next to the grindstone those coins are worth a king’s ransom.”

      “Kids? Maybe the whole thing was about breaking in rather than taking any particular relic?”

      “Maybe. The ridiculous thing is we were about to put it in storage, anyway. We’ve got limited space and much more interesting exhibits to take its place, but that’s life.”

      Annja couldn’t understand why anyone looking for the thrill would steal something as heavy as a grindstone. It didn’t make sense when there were so many other more portable—and resalable—things close to hand, including the slew of coins in the same case, the collection of pins and brooches in the case beside it, even the “cool factor” of the old sword in the display case in the center of the room. It really didn’t compute at all, even if it was about the thrill. Maybe it was a dare? Break-in and escape with one of the heaviest treasures to prove their manliness or something? And yet one of the memorial stones or the stone sarcophagus would have been more difficult to remove....

      There were plenty of items of interest—some large, some small—but what Annja loved about places like this was that each and every one of them had a story to tell. It was even more special when one considered they’d all been found locally, either in the town or nearby in Usk. Together they offered a fascinating insight into the people who’d lived and died in this area. She could almost hear the ghosts of the Roman legion marching down the street toward the amphitheater, a few good men so far from their own homeland. That was why she loved what she did.

      The sound of her cell phone broke the silence of the room.

      Both members of staff turned toward her, both smiling as she shrugged sorry.

      The screen displayed Garin’s name. She hit the refuse button to end the call before it began. He could leave a message and she’d return his call—assuming it was anything worth returning—when she was done.

      No sooner had the phone fallen silent than he called again.

      She killed it on the first ring only for him to call back again.

      “Someone really wants to talk to you,” the woman said.

      Annja answered. “Persistent, aren’t you?” she whispered, heading back outside. “Twice in two days? Should I be worried or flattered?”

      “You should be moving. Fast.”

      “Should I now? Why might that be? Thinking of paying a visit, after all?”

      “It’s Roux. He needs us.”

      That changed things.

      “What’s wrong?”

      “We’ve got to get to a place called St. Davids yesterday. I’m picking the old man up. We’ll be there by lunchtime.” His voice sounded strange and there was a noise in the background she knew should have been familiar.

      “What’s going on?” She still found it slightly ironic that a man who was more than five hundred years old could call anyone else an old man.

      “No idea, but something has really upset him. And you know what he’s like. He doesn’t upset easy. See you soon.” The call ended, leaving Annja with a growing sense of unease. Garin was right; Roux wasn’t rattled easily, so if something had got to him it had to be serious. It was equally unnerving that he’d used Garin as a messenger boy. What kind of trouble was Roux in?

       Chapter 11

      Annja was on the road again.

      So much for being on holiday.

      But weirdly, though, the thought of saying no never occurred to her; that was just the way it was. Garin said Roux was in trouble, what else was she going to do? She owed the pair of them more than she’d ever admit, technically everything her life had become. That the older man had recovered every shard of Joan of Arc’s shattered sword was down to Roux, and that she’d ever walked away from la Bête du Gévaudan was down to Garin’s timely arrival. The man sure knew how to make an entrance.

      The manager of the hotel hadn’t batted an eye when she asked to extend her stay a week and paid for the room up front. Although he had cocked a curious eyebrow at her bags, she’d explained how she was making an unplanned detour and expected to be back in a day or two tops.

      The landscape changed as she traveled. Mile by mile it became more mountainous and increasingly spectacular. She caught the occasional glimpse of the huge white turbines of wind farms as the road curved and coiled toward the urban sprawls of Newport, Cardiff and Bridgend before she reached the industrial landscape of Port Talbot. There she was greeted by a huge gout of flame blazing brightly from one of the chimneys of the steelworks. It was a different world.

      Eventually the motorway came to an end and the road narrowed considerably. The cars around her slowed without any warning signs, their drivers used to the slower pace of life and the end of the motorway regardless of the speed limit. She followed the road from village to village rather than town to town; houses were dotted across the hillsides, a few huddled together in small clusters. She had to pull over to the side of the road more than once to double-check the map to be sure she was still on the right road as every few miles it became less and less convincing. The landscape, though, was breathtaking and more than made up for the permanent feeling of being lost. Lots of signposts she saw were in duel languages—English and Welsh—though the Welsh seemed to lack a lot of vowels. At last she skirted the fringes СКАЧАТЬ